


The Imp and The Viper

by TheHof125



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Spoilers for Book 3 - A Storm of Swords
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHof125/pseuds/TheHof125
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*Spoilers for A Song of Ice and Fire Book 3, and Game of Thrones Season 4, Episode 6 and beyond*</p><p>Oberyn's death left us all reeling, and so in my mourning of the character, I began writing a "What if he survived?" story. </p><p>Set right after Tyrion's demand for a Trial by Combat. Oberyn is based upon Pedro Pascal's performance primarily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Imp and The Viper

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for any material that seems hastily written. Pacing doesn't appear to be my forte. 
> 
> I appreciate any constructive criticism! Please, go ahead and tell me what I've done wrong. In as civil a way as you can write.
> 
> More chapters to come, I hope.

# The Imp and The Viper

## Tyrion

Tyrion sat in his cell, a smile conjuring ever so slightly, with the image of his father’s face in disarray, or as much as is possible with Tywin Lannister, burned into his conscious. He should’ve been feeling guilty, hopeless, scared; instead, the Imp felt only satisfaction.

As he was being pulled away by the Gold cloaks, he’d managed to find Cersei’s face in the complete madness that had ensued after his demand of a Trial by Combat. It was utter anger; Tyrion had never been truly scared of his sister, but in that moment, he was. Despite his joy at stirring his father’s anger, the glare Cersei sent him was enough to somewhat unnerve him.

Nonetheless, that couldn’t stilt his happiness, no matter how illogical it seemed to anyone else. He could remember the snarl on Father’s face, the charming grin seeping from the Red Viper, the pompous gasp that erupted from the fat face of Mace Tyrell, and the chorus of objections from the crowd seated at the trial. All of it brought a smile to Tyrion’s ugly, disfigured face.

Though his smile subsided when his thoughts turned to Shae.  _Beautiful, innocent, lying whore. I trusted her, and she repays me with treachery,_ he thought to himself solemnly. No snarl from Tywin Lannister was ever going to fix the fact that Shae had completely betrayed him. She had taken his gold, his fine clothes he bought for her, his love, before spitting in his face and walking off. _When I get out of this damned cell, may all the Seven help her._

His rage was somewhat dispelled, and instead replaced with guilt, as Jaime stepped into his confinement, white cloak trailing behind. His golden hand gleamed as sunlight from the tiny window in Tyrion’s cell hit the polished metal. And whereas an often smug face sat, only a face of complete bitterness was found.  

“You  _idiot_!” Jaime snarled. “We offered you a way out, a way to end this farce, a way to save your god damned life, and you threw it in our faces! Do you  _want_  to die?” Jaime took seat at a wooden stool opposite where Tyrion stood, as the Imp tried to rectify his wrong.

“Of course I don’t want to die! But if Father thinks he can send me off to the Wall and forget about me, he’s bloody wrong,” Tyrion said. “May I ask; how did you come to this deal between Father and yourself?”

Jaime looked at Tyrion with reluctance in his eyes, instead of the former irritation that was there just before. “Father needs an heir of Lannister namesake...”

“You didn’t forsake your vowels, did you?” Tyrion cut Jaime off. Jaime’s eyes wouldn’t meet Tyrion’s and that was all the answer he needed. The Dwarves hands bundled into fists and his anger became apparent to his brother. “You  _fucking_  fool! Father has played you!”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Jaime shot back, without missing a beat. “This is what he’s been wanting for far too long, and now he has the opportunity to deliver his golden son to the Rock, and make the disappointment disappear. But I was not going to stand idly by whilst you were sent to the chopping block!”

Tyrion’s guilt returned as he realised his brother’s good intentions. He hung his head in shame, before taking a seat across the room from Jaime. Both Lannister men sat for minutes in silence, contemplating. Eventually, though, Tyrion decided to voice his thoughts.

“Now, who is going to champion me?” Tyrion asked. “You, maybe? Bronn? I wouldn’t mind watching a fight between my sellsword and some Kingsguard buffoon; Meryn Trant would fight valiantly but still lose his head, I’m sure.”

Jaime looked at Tyrion with some bemusement in his eyes, before informing Tyrion that their sister wasn’t so stupid as to take Meryn fucking Trant as her champion. “She wants to see you dead; she won’t take any chances. She’ll want the best fighter she can get.”

Tyrion’s eyebrow raised slightly, before he asked, “You? Is she going to choose you?” The Imp seized up, scared of the answer that may await him.

“Of course not!” Jaime responded, laughing. “Look at me! I’ve got a hand missing, I’ve barely fought in any kind of proper combat for a year, and I’m the only true son that Father has left, part from you.”

“And Cersei loves you,” Tyrion noted absently. As Tyrion turned to look back at Jaime, he spotted a sudden but distinguishable look that looked very much like anger.

“Tread carefully now; I’m the only friend you have left,” Jaime warned. His tone wasn’t one of aggression, though the words spoke for themselves. “No, Tyrion, not me. She has someone else in mind...”

“Who is it?” Tyrion cut off his brother. He leaned forward in anticipation.

“He’s... large.”

## Cersei

“Your Grace, he’s just now arriving,” a maid informed Cersei. The Queen smoothed her flowing silk dress, golden in colour, before stepping out of the wheelhouse she had been riding in.

There before her rode Ser Gregor Clegane, all of eight feet tall, mounted on a monstrous destrier that still paled in comparison to his bulk. He rode into the city, passing underneath the Gate of the Gods, with 20 soldiers riding behind him in a rough formation. His armour shone as the autumn sun shone down upon him. As he neared, Cersei called out to him.

“Ser Gregor, I am glad you have arrived so quickly.  I was worried that the greatest warrior in all Seven Kingdoms would not arrive in time to champion His Grace,” Cersei told him. “Your King will be delighted that you are here, I’m sure.”

Clegane was never one to dwell on praise or formalities, and so he pushed forward to the point. “Who am I fighting, Your Grace?”

Cersei, caught off guard by the knight’s bluntness, stumbled over her words, if but only for a second. “Why... I can’t give you that information just yet, Ser. My kin slaying brother has not declared his champion as of yet.”

Gregor grunted, dismissing this. “It does not matter anyway. They all die when my sword comes down upon theirs.”

Cersei’s mouth formed a wide smile.  _The Mountain that Rides; one of the Kingdoms most_   _devastatingly good killers, at my disposal._  Cersei was confident now that Gregor Clegane had accepted the opportunity to fight Tyrion’s champion, that she was to see her brother dead.  _And then my Watch is ended._

## Tyrion

It was late when the door to Tyrion’s cell opened unexpectedly, and a visitor was ushered in.  _A visitor, or mayhaps an assassin. Either of them will be unwelcome at this hour._

Tyrion sat up on his stool, allowing his eyes to adjust to the visitor’s torch. When his sight finally settled, Tyrion saw before him a Dornish prince; Prince Oberyn Martell, to be specific. Golden Dornish suns upon Oberyn’s robe glittered splendidly in the light that the torch threw upon the cell, and his yellow robe turned orange as he approached Tyrion, sitting opposite him.

Oberyn sat, leaning slightly to the left, crossing his legs. The men sat opposite each other for 5 minutes without uttering a word. Oberyn looked into Tyrion’s eyes, pity, cockiness, amusement, all evident upon his face. Tyrion stared back.

“Prince Oberyn, what a delight it is to have you in my quarters at such an hour,” Tyrion declared as he yawned. He spotted a sly grin from Oberyn. “What brings you down to the cells?”

Oberyn dodged the question, seemingly disregarding everything Tyrion had said. “I met you once before. Before  _this_  whole ordeal.” The Red Viper beckoned all around him.

“Truly? It appears I can’t seem to recall such a time,” Tyrion noted. Oberyn smiled slightly.

“That’s not surprising; you’d just been born,” Oberyn informed Tyrion. “My sister Elia and I came to Casterly Rock just after your mother had died, and you had come into the world.” Oberyn leaned forward. “All throughout our journey to the Rock, we heard these rumours of your disfigured features, and how Tywin Lannister’s wife had died giving birth to a monster. When we arrived at the Rock, we met with your heartbroken father, your sister Cersei, and your brother Jaime. From the moment we arrived, we begged of them to show us the monster of Lannister, their new born brother. It was weeks into our horrible stay that they actually granted us the wish. Cersei swept us into the nursery one sullen day, and we finally got to behold the beast that was you.”

Oberyn sat back then. Tyrion beckoned him onwards with the story, and so Oberyn obliged. “Sure, your head was a little too big, your body a little too small, but a monster? No. Where were the demon claws? The evil snarl? The tail I was promised from a Lannister bannermen’s son? All I saw between your legs was a tiny pink cock. No, a monster you were not. Elia and I did not hide our disappointment to your sister and brother. “This is not a monster,” we told them, “Just a baby.” Cersei wouldn’t listen though. You know what she did then?” Oberyn asked Tyrion. Tyrion shook his head. “She grabbed your little cock, and told us “He is a monster. He killed my mother. He’s a kinslayer. The nurses say he will die soon. I hope they’re right.” She said this all whilst you were screaming from the pain emulating from your loins. She wouldn’t let go. It took Elia and Jaime to convince her to let go of your cock. When she did, though, she spat out, “I hope he dies screaming, like my mother did, the little shit.”

Oberyn’s arm fell back to his sides whilst he awaited some response from Tyrion. The Imp lacked words though, and simply nodded. It certainly sounded like something his bitch sister would do.

Finally, though, he managed to spit out, “Well, sooner or later, Cersei always gets what she wants.”

Oberyn was not happy with that answer it seemed, so he sat forward, eyes digging into Tyrion’s own, and posed him the question, “But what about what  _I_  want? Shouldn’t a prince get what he wants?”

Tyrion simply shrugged. “What do you want Prince Oberyn? Certainly not something I can give you,” he said, looking about him.

“That’s where you’re wrong, my little friend! What do I want?” He paused briefly for dramatic effect. “Justice. Justice for all those who have wronged me, for those who have slighted my family, and spat in our faces. That is what I want,” Oberyn told him, choosing his words carefully.

Tyrion laughed just slightly, amused by Oberyn’s persistence for “justice.” “If you’ve come looking for justice, my prince, then you’ve come to the wrong place!” Tyrion told him.

“I disagree,” Oberyn rebutted, insistent. The prince stood up, and approached the torch he had deposited in a sconce before he had sat down opposite Tyrion. “I want to bring all those who have wronged my family to justice, and all those who have wronged my family are right here, in this city!” Oberyn exclaimed, turning back to Tyrion.

“I will start by bringing Ser Gregor Clegane to his knees, and have him confess his murder of my sister during the rebellion. And look at that, my little friend; it appears Gregor Clegane is championing your sister, our regent, at the Trial by Combat!”

Tyrion almost did not believe what he’d just heard: was Oberyn going to champion  _him_?  _No... this can’t be._ Though Oberyn’s next words very much confirmed Tyrion’s suspicions. 

“I find it funny, that I’m going to aid a fellow man who seeks justice, but needs help to execute it,” Oberyn smiled, looking down upon the dwarf. “Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock... I will be your champion at the Trial by Combat.”

## Tyrion

Tyrion’s eyes fluttered open as the sunlight beamed through his window. He could feel terror running through his blood, though adrenaline rushed through as well.  _This could be my final day in this world,_ Tyrion thought to himself. Washing his face in a bowl of water provided to him by his gaolers, the Imp’s thoughts turned to his childhood. He suddenly remembered old memories, of better times; watching Jaime train with the master-at-arms at the Rock, running through the streets of Lannisport, sharing japes and knowledge with uncle Kevan, and trying to prove to Cersei that he wasn’t as worthless as she believed him.

 _Where did that ever get me? All my efforts couldn’t keep her from trying to get me killed at the end of it all._ Tyrion laughed at that.

Soon enough, guards came to escort Tyrion out to the battle arena, where Oberyn was preparing. Tyrion gasped as he saw Oberyn’s battle gear. He wore light armour, in addition to a flowing robe and supple leather. He gripped a spear, 8 feet long, with a viper masterfully crafted into the weapon. The Red Viper nodded to Tyrion as he noted his presence.

“It’s a beautiful day, my little friend, do you not agree?” Oberyn asked Tyrion. The Imp simply looked at his champion in disbelief. “What is wrong, my Lord? Scared for my life?”

“More so scared for mine. Is that  _all_  you’re going to wear?” Tyrion asked his champion. “You do realise whom you’re fighting, correct?”

Oberyn laughed heartily, before taking a swig of wine from a cup. Again, Tyrion looked at the man in disbelief.

“You shouldn’t drink before a fight,” Tyrion urged him, right as Oberyn drunk another deep gulp of the liquid. Oberyn grinned at the Imp broadly, amused by Tyrion’s overreaction to his usual customs.

“I always drink before a fight. Calms my nerves, as you can clearly see,” Oberyn said, gesturing to himself. “And as to who I’m fighting; a craven who kills women and children because his liege lord orders him to.”

“A fucking huge craven, more like it,” Tyrion muttered. He shook his head, before scratching his broken nose.

“You worry too much Tyrion,” Ellaria Sand, Oberyn’s paramour, told him, as she stood next to him. “Have faith in my lover’s capabilities; have you ever seen him fight?”

Tyrion shrugged, confessing that he hadn’t.

“My paramour does not lose, no matter his opponent’s size, shape or strength. I should tell you about-“ Ellaria was cut off by The Mountain’s appearance.

“You’re going to fight  _that_?” Ellaria asked Oberyn, suddenly worried.  _Reasonably so,_ Tyrion mused.  _Oberyn may be confident, but that won’t save him from the reach of Gregor Clegane._ Tyrion hoped that Oberyn’s fabled speed was in reality quick enough to get out of the incredible reach that Clegane sported.

The Mountain was wearing an incredibly thick layer of armour that looked impossible to pierce from first glance. Tyrion’s doubts increased tenfold at his first look at his champion’s opponent.  

“How do you get through that, Red Viper?” Tyrion asked Oberyn as he swung his spear in slow circles.

“Find the joints, target them, and soon enough, we should have him on the ground,” Oberyn told him. He stated it as if it was easy as smashing a beetle under a rock.

 _This arrogance is going to get him killed, as well as, and more importantly, me._  Tyrion’s questions halted as the old shit Grand Maester Pycelle appeared, officially opening the combat.

Oberyn gripped his spear with his right hand as he pulled Ellaria in for a passionate embrace and kiss.

“Do not leave me in this world alone, my love,” Ellaria begged her paramour.

“Never,” Oberyn said, simply.

He smiled at Tyrion, took his spear with both hands, swung it in intricate circles and complicated patterns, before looking towards the crowd for approval. They gave it to him in spades, cheering and applauding him. The Mountain waited with little patience.

A horn went off, and the fight began.

Oberyn turned to his opponent, grin etched in place. “Did they tell you who I am, mayhaps?” the man asked The Mountain.

“A dead man,” Clegane shouted as he pulled his sword down in a viscous ark that was deflected harmlessly off Oberyn’s spear.

“I am Oberyn Martell, prince of Dorne. And you know why I have come to this shitpile of a city?” the Viper asked the angry Mountain.  He smiled. “For you.”

Tyrion grimaced as Oberyn took the fight to his opponent, swinging his spear in inconceivably quick and elaborate ways, blocking Clegane’s cuts and swings, flipping and cart wheeling around as if this was practice.

“You’re slower than I expected. My sister Elia was always quite quick, so I’d expect a much quicker man to be the one behind her death,” Oberyn explained, as he forced the point of Clegane’s sword to the ground. The two looked at each other in the eyes, before The Mountain kicked at Oberyn. The Viper stumbled backwards, still clutching his spear, and managed to dodge the next set of dangerous down cuts that Clegane dealt. The larger man stabbed, thrusting expertly, though Oberyn’s quick feet prevented any harm coming to him. He cart wheeled away from The Mountain as he regained his footing.

 “Elia Martell,” he said, as he lunged at The Mountain, aiming for a joint at the neck which was far less armoured than the rest of the Mountain’s being. “You raped her,” he said as he dodged a returning lunge from The Mountain and cart wheeled behind his opponent. “You murdered her,” he exclaimed, louder as he slammed the butt of his spear into the back of Clegane. “You killed her children,” he said finally, shouting as he lunged the point of the spear into the back of another neck joint, sparingly armoured.

Ellaria looked to Tyrion, grinning at him. “I told you Imp; my love does not lose, no matter size, shape or strength.”

Tyrion could not help grinning back, ever slightly. He couldn’t bring himself to make any jape though, with his courage in his mouth and lungs failing him.

“You raped her, you murdered her, you killed her children,” Oberyn said again, dodging more lunges and swings, all becoming clumsier than the former. As The Mountain’s rage surfaced in the form of a scream of anger, Oberyn backed out of his reach, allowing another devastating down-cut to harmlessly hit the polished concrete beneath them.

“Now,” the Dornish man said, smiling, “Prepare to die.”

Oberyn knocked the sword aside, leapt into the air, before driving his spear through the lesser armoured neck joint of The Mountain’s front. His accuracy was unparalleled, and The Mountain appeared to stagger. Oberyn ripped his spear free, again knocking the sword out of the way as Gregor Clegane fell to the ground on his back. Oberyn walked around him, smiling, before arriving above his opponent’s head.

“Confess, and your death will be easier. Who gave you the order; the order that ended my sister’s life?” Oberyn asked the fallen man, before looking to Tywin Lannister up on the dais briefly. Clegane did not move, nor respond.

“You killed Elia of the House Martell, didn’t you? Now, who gave you the order?” Oberyn asked again, anger rising in his voice. Tyrion’s teeth chattered.  _Get it done you fool,_ the Imp thought to himself.

Oberyn’s rage reached a peak, and he demanded a confession once again. “Who gave you the damned order?!” he screamed.

Suddenly, the Mountain’s hand reached out, clawing for Oberyn’s leg, but the Viper was quicker. His spear spun downwards in a flash, and pierced the wrist joint of Clegane, another softly armoured point. The Mountain screamed in agony; a scream that saw Jaime leap back on the dais, Cersei’s eyes go wide beside her brother and Tyrion’s stomach grumble sickly.

Oberyn’s spear twisted agonisingly, drawing more blood curdling screams from his opponent, that sent women scampering away from their seats, intent on leaving behind the horrible sight. Tyrion could only stand and watch. Ellaria looked at him wide eyed.

“Is your lover usually this brutal in combat?” Tyrion asked her.

Ellaria shook her head slowly, eyes flickering between both Tyrion and Oberyn. “No, but I should have expected this. He will make this as long a kill as possible. Prepare for more screams, my Lord of Lannister,” Ellaria told him, gulping. Tyrion nodded uncertainly.

Meanwhile, Oberyn looked down upon Clegane, smiling wickedly, as if he were a maniac. He twisted the spear’s point in his opponent’s wrist sharply one final time, before ripping the weapon from The Mountain’s skin. Another cry went up. More crowd members left in haste.

“Weak craven. It’s only a flesh wound!” Oberyn declared, looking towards the crowd. Tyrion knew their approval was not what he wanted anymore.  _Just a look of disgust from my father,_ he thought to himself.

The Viper’s head turned quickly as The Mountain made an attempt to reclaim his footing. Oberyn didn’t like that notion, so he trod to the lower region of Clegane’s body, this time standing above his feet, and took his spear in hand, twisting it in more elaborate ways, before slamming it down viscously into Clegane’s ankle. The next cry that went up from the monstrous man sent some crowd goers to their knees, vomiting. Tyrion stood, unflinching, as did his sister, he noted. His brother looked on with a disgusted face. Tywin’s face was as unemotional as ever.

Oberyn roared a laugh at his opponent’s misery. “When was the last time you felt true pain, Gregor Clegane? So long ago, I expect. Well, by the time I’m done with you, pain will be your best of friend,” he declared. The Viper took his spear from the ankle of The Mountain with another sharp tug, and another beaming laugh.

“I’ll ask you once more; who gave you the order? If you don’t tell me, I’ll start flaying you, like a dreaded Bolton,” Oberyn warned him. The Mountain made no move to tell him anything, though, and so Oberyn kept his promise, throwing all his weight yet again back on the injured ankle. This time, though, he continued to twist the spear inside the joint, ripping tendons, destroying muscle. A look of concentration was all that was to be seen on The Viper’s face.

And then, suddenly, a confession leaked from the flailing body beneath Oberyn. At first, the words didn’t seem words at all; instead, they seemed to merge with the scream that was continuing to emanate from The Mountain. But fortunately, the crowd hushed enough when they realised the beast of a man was spouting actual words.

“Tywin fucking Lannister gave the fucking order, you Dornish cunt!” The Mountain screamed, drawing gasps from the crowd. Oberyn smiled, once again, satisfied with the answer.

He removed his spear from The Mountain’s body, and walked around the man’s body slowly, taking his time with every movement. The crowd had completely hushed in anticipation of what was to come. Ellaria gripped Tyrion’s shoulder hard, scared for some unknown reason. The same could be said for Tyrion.  _The Mountain’s as good as dead, though I don’t feel any relief just yet._

Oberyn, on the other hand, was enjoying himself far too much. The Mountain’s hand clawed out towards his foot again, but he dodged it as easily as he would a pothole in the road. The bigger man was too slow now, and victory was all but ensured for Oberyn.

He arrived at Clegane’s head, looking down upon his face, admiring his foe. “Thank you Gregor Clegane for your confession. May the gods punish you in all Seven Hells, demon of a man. Now,” Oberyn declared, halting for just a moment, gathering the crowd’s anticipation. “Die,” he finished.

With the spear raised above his head, Oberyn thrust down as hard as he could, bringing the spear into the same neck joint he had targeted earlier, and bringing another brief scream from Clegane. It did not last long, as Oberyn gripped the spear once again, twisting until the scream stopped, as The Mountain’s blood spread across the bricks of the arena. The entire crowd went silent.

No cheer went up at the death of such a man as Gregor Clegane. Only silence consumed the great number of highborns, merchants, and other notable people. Even the usually rowdy and loud Tyrell folk had gone silent. Cersei’s face had dropped. Jaime was beaming, though he dare not speak his delight aloud. His father, for the first time since the trial for Tyrion’s life, twisted his face into disgust and annoyance. That, out of all this, was what Tyrion enjoyed seeing most.

Oberyn eventually removed his spear from the corpse, allowing more blood to soak the exquisite arena. He looked down towards Clegane’s body, as if he expected him to arise, and stalked around the arena, before looking towards Tyrion. Then his smile reappeared.

“Tyrion, son of Tywin, heir to Casterly Rock; it appears you’re free to go,” Oberyn declared, drawing slight murmuring from the crowd, that was silenced by Oberyn’s look towards the dais. More specifically, at Lord Tywin.

Both men stared at each other for seemed an eternity, neither wishing to take their eyes away from each other. They stood like that for 10 seconds, before finally, with stone cold eyes, Oberyn spat at the ground towards Tywin, then took his spear in his right hand, and walked back over to his tent cockily, where Tyrion and Ellaria stood, shaking. Oberyn threw his spear to a squire, before embracing his paramour in a heated kiss, that seemingly lasted too long for a public space.

After, Oberyn took a cup of wine, gulping long, before looking towards Tyrion with a genuine grin. “It is done my little friend. You’re free!” he beamed.

Tyrion looked at him with a half smile, as a guard unlocked his cuffs, allowing his wrists comfort. “And I will thank you for it until the day I  _do_  die, my Prince.”   
     


End file.
